


Wayward Protector

by heeroluva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Asexuality, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dark, Gen, Implied Torture, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/pseuds/heeroluva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An event from Sherlock's childhood still affects him and Mycroft, even years later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft Holmes was a man with many regrets, but none so much as failing to protect his brother. Mycroft had loved his brother from the day Sherlock had appeared red and screaming into the world. It hadn’t mattered that he was a difficult baby, that no matter how hard they’d tried to ‘Sherlock-proof’ things, he’d always manage to get into them, or that as he’d grown hadn’t cared for social niceties or making friends. By age five, Sherlock, after one too many embarrassing observations, had been banned from attending the posh soirées that their parents had put together leaving Mycroft to watch after this brother, often reading to him from his own school work.

While protecting Sherlock had started as a necessity, it had turned into something Mycroft did because he wanted to. Well beyond the time it was proper, Sherlock would crawl into his bed, shaking in terror at the booms of thunder that shook their old house. Mycroft could never quite fathom how Sherlock had managed to remain so skinny when he’d eat the majority of Mycroft’s dessert along with his own because Mycroft could deny Sherlock nothing.

Knowing firsthand the cruelties of children who thought you were too different from them and seeing the fights that Sherlock had gotten into, Mycroft had pleaded with his parents to hire a tutor for Sherlock. If he’d known then what would be done to Sherlock, that it would be the beginning of the end of his relationship with Sherlock, Mycroft would have done things differently. The background check they’d done on the man had come back clean, with only the occasional traffic ticket marring his record.

They hadn’t dug deeper, hadn’t felt the need; Sherlock had paid for that, and Mycroft had never made that mistake again. Sherlock, who had been an exuberant though not overly loud child, had suddenly grown quiet and withdrawn. Mycroft had been concerned of course, but he’d been busy with university, and had attributed the change to puberty, knowing that it could be a trying time, his own having been wrought with difficulties.

Nothing could have prepared Mycroft for what he had found one rainy day evenings after too many days had passed with Sherlock not returning his calls, Sherlock who had once reveled in sharing his latest scientific discovery or lecturing him on closed police cases that were just _wrong_. 

The events of that evening were a bit of a blur, but he would never forget Sherlock’s screams or his tears. They were what had prevented him from killing the man right then and there. The blood on his fists had attested to the fact that it would have been so easy. Death would have been far too easy for the man though; there were far crueler things, and while Mycroft hadn’t had the power to order any of those things yet, he’d known people that could. He’d used up quite a few favors, setting it all up, but it had been worth it. 

Mycroft hadn’t been sure what to do for Sherlock, how to react, sick with the thought of what had been done to his little brother. The clues that he’d overlooked for so long, the questions that he’d never asked all suddenly fell into place with horrible clarity. But in the end, as people often did when presented with things that disturbed them, he’d decided that it was better to pretend that that night had never happened. At least where Sherlock was concerned. 

That had been a mistake. Sherlock’s face the one time he’d tried to bring it up and been rebuffed, would haunt Mycroft for years. Mycroft had tried to rationalize it, of course, but in the end it had come back to his own fear, and Sherlock would pay the price for that for years to come. Following the incident, Sherlock had been sent off to a boarding school and not long after had fallen into drugs. By the time Mycroft realized what had happened, it was too late.

Mycroft had already lost him, lost any chance of his brother ever trusting him. He didn’t know how to protect Sherlock from himself. So he’d watched, his heart breaking a little more each time his surveillance team would bring an overdosing Sherlock to the A & E and knowing that it was in part his fault for sending Sherlock down this road.

Finally one Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade had entered Sherlock’s life, and had presented him with a challenge, but one he had to be well and truly clean for. Mycroft had been suspicious because there had been no reason for the man to trust someone like Sherlock, just another addict in a city full of them. Upon searching Mycroft found that Lestrade had lost a younger sister to that lifestyle and then struggled with alcohol addiction himself after his now ex-wife had lost their baby, who he would find out years later likely wasn’t even his own, but the aftermath of a steady string of lovers.

The only black marks on his record were a number of insubordination reports, which, as they tended to appear around the time of year that reviews happened, Mycroft would guess had been intentional to keep him in his current position. Mycroft had approached the man, seeking information on Sherlock, just the little things that his surveillance team wouldn’t take note of or a more general question of his state of mind. Lestrade had been leery at first, but after a few meetings, he’d recognized a bit of himself in Mycroft, an older sibling looking out for someone that wouldn’t ever ask them for help no matter how much they might need it.

Mycroft worried about the lack of close bonds Sherlock had; other than his landlady and the Inspector, Sherlock had no one. He had hundreds of acquaintances, people he’d gotten out of charges, and the homeless network that seemed to flock around him. Mycroft knew why. If you really looked, Sherlock had a draw about him. He’d used it to his advantage as a child, but it had never been malicious, never been so full of intent, as the weapon that Sherlock had honed it into as an adult. But that wasn’t the same. Mycroft had told Sherlock once when he was young and upset by a classmate that caring wasn’t an advantage, that the boy’s opinion wouldn’t matter; Sherlock had taken that to heart.

The sudden entrance of Doctor John Watson, previously an army captain with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, was unexpected. That Sherlock would let a stranger so close so fast, inviting him to live with him, was a shock. But after meeting him, Mycroft had understood what had captured Sherlock’s attention so fully.

John could be the making of Sherlock…or make him worse than ever. And Mycroft would be there, watching, waiting, always in the shadows doing the best to protect his brother even if Sherlock didn’t want it.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock never liked to admit that the events of his childhood had played such a large role on who he would become but they had. The man who hadn’t deserved the space in Sherlock’s memory to remember a name, had taken a part of Sherlock, a part of him that he could never get back. It was Mycroft, always Mycroft ever since he was a babe that had been there to protect him, and Sherlock had expected that piece of him to be rescued, to be saved. 

Sherlock hadn’t known why he hadn’t told anyone; shame maybe, embarrassment, the thought that people would think him a liar because he’d still cared about things like that back then. But then Sherlock had never had to tell Mycroft anything for him to know that something was wrong. He’d _always_ known. But that time had been different as Mycroft was around less and less as his studies and job kept him far too busy.

For a while, Sherlock had thought he’d deserved it, that it had been his punishment for giving the people in his life such a hard time. But then he’d been angry, and hated everyone and everything. And after a bit, he’d just stopped feeling at all, locking it all away because it was easier that way. 

That night that Mycroft found them, Sherlock had felt a thousand things at once, the dam opening at the sight of his brother. But most of all he’d been terrified of his brother, of the violence he had inflicted on the man and after that Sherlock barely recognized Mycroft as though his brother had changed into someone else right before his very eyes. 

Mycroft had called someone, had the man taken away and helped Sherlock clean up. Sherlock had wanted to confess it all, but he couldn’t find the words and Mycroft had been so angry. Mycroft was never angry and that had terrified Sherlock. They didn’t talk about it, not in the weeks that followed, not for a long time. Mummy had tried to talk to him about it once, but he’d closed her out. It wasn’t something he’d wanted to discuss. On the outside things had gone back to much the way they’d been before the man, but everything was different. Sherlock was different. Mycroft was different. 

And then finally the day that he’d wanted to talk, that he’d tried to talk, and Mycroft had looked right through him, with that face he wore when he was on a business call. But it hadn’t been perfect yet, the mask, and Sherlock saw it, saw the truth of how he felt. Mycroft didn’t want to talk about it, so Sherlock hadn’t. He’d never tried again. Not with anyone. 

Sherlock had never had felt attraction before those events and certainly hadn’t had any interest in sex after. Oh, he’d done his fair share of things to get money for the drugs when he’d needed it, but it hadn’t been because he’d enjoyed it. It had been a necessity like any other, done because you had to, not because you liked it or wanted to. Mycroft would have given Sherlock the money if he’d asked, he knew, but he couldn’t cross that line. 

It had been a copper of all people, Detective Inspector Lestrade who had been able to pull Sherlock out of that life, offering him a new addiction in place of the old. But for this new one Sherlock needed all of his senses, needed his mind sharp and not clouded with the high of the drugs as great as they were at disguising the past. Sherlock had known that Lestrade’s reasons for helping hadn’t been all that altruistic, but it had been what Sherlock had needed at the time.

Sherlock had been fine with his lack of sexual interest, with how he was, or he’d thought it hadn’t been important. Things changed with the entrance of John into Sherlock’s life. With John, Sherlock wished that he was interested. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for John, nothing that he didn’t want to experience with John. _Caring is not an advantage_ , the mantra that his brother had taught him so many years ago went out the window with John, and Sherlock hadn’t fought it, hadn’t been able to fight it.

Mycroft’s little show for John wasn’t really a surprise, but it wasn’t really welcome either. Oh, Sherlock wasn’t blind to miss what his brother did, the surveillance, the overdose that should have seen him dead only to wake up in the hospital with his treatment paid for in full by an anonymous beneficiary. Sherlock knew that Mycroft was there, but couldn’t help but hate him a little for it.

Sherlock had forgiven his brother a long time ago, but he could never forget. It hadn’t been Mycroft’s fault, not really, but for a long time, Sherlock had blamed him, blamed himself. It had been years before he could admit that no one was to blame but the man. And by then Sherlock had lost himself. The gap between them had been too wide for him to traverse, as he’d been more than a little leery of risking himself to that kind of hurt.

All Sherlock had needed was the words, for years he’d hoped that Mycroft would come save him as he’d always done, but he knew what Mycroft thought of him, had seen his disgust so many times, and knew that it would never happen. There was no going back to what they’d had before, not matter how much Sherlock wanted it. He loved his brother, but he didn’t need him anymore. 

The past didn’t define Sherlock, but it was a part of him that he could never ‘delete’ no matter how hard he wished it. Maybe with John, Sherlock could be himself.


End file.
